Entangled
by Jungle Iparis
Summary: Tris has always been this careful on the subject of boundaries. She knew what she was doing, at least until the very point where all her boundaries were suddenly melting into Peter's kiss in an entangled mess of everything. At that moment, Tris walked the line— and she is about to find out what exactly it means.
1. One

**One**

* * *

 **Tris**

This is one of those other days where I feel messed up as fuck.

I am snuggling between the sheets, grimacing at the queer taste of vodka left on my chapped lips after an eternity of drifting and sinking between the horizon of consciousness. My head still hurts from the binge-drinking, but hey, not like I care. It has always been that way ever since, well, exactly when?

I'm just fucking tired, that's what I am trying to say.

I stare out of the window with lazy eyes. The drizzle hits lightly on the limpid glass and slowly slides down along the window pane, a turbid wisp of haze lingering over the city's overcast sky. I don't know what I'm doing with my life. It has seriously been a lot harder for me than it was during the war— at least back then I had a purpose in it.

I check the time. Three in the afternoon. Damn, my life is really fucked up.

I forcefully fling myself off of bed and decide to go freshen up a bit. I take a brave look at the mirror and gawk at the withered girl standing feebly inside. _I'll need a haircut some time_ , I fiddle with a strand of hair hugging the curves of my breasts that has obviously grown too long, think about how long it takes for that to happen, and eventually get back on track to the core part of my daily routine: reminiscing.

It has been two years after the, well, _thing_. I barely made it out of the war alive. Everyone thought I was not gonna make it, but well, apparently I did, which is kind of frustrating. Might as well just die so I don't have to be who I am right now.

I sigh into the mirror. Pretty sure nothing on earth will be able to cure me. Well, maybe except one thing. Which I don't have anymore.

Tobias and I went separate ways half a year ago. I mean, I get it. I was completely intolerable at that point, and it surely has taken him a shit ton of patience to have endured me this long until he decided to speak for himself. It went weird, but nevertheless, I understood why he had to do this. I would have done the same if I were him. It still upset me though, and for the next six months onward, I have been fucking with my life more than I have intended to.

I guess I was a little traumatized from the war, but it was worse than I would like to admit. For a very long time, I wasn't happy. I was itching to find something worth pursuing for, a dream, a goal, stuff like that. Tobias wanted to settle down, have a kid, at first I didn't say no. But then I quickly realized that tranquility isn't really my thing. It's not in my bones. And there was this one point where everything felt forced, which is a point he had decided to make clear and I kinda had to agree on.

And so off he went, and he never came back.

I didn't feel particularly upset, mostly because I knew it was gonna happen. It was destined not to work, given my mental condition. I can't possibly be fixed. The pieces are too small to begin with.

I didn't let one drop of tear fall from my eye after that, but I was completely aware that I was getting worse. I started fucking around, fully taking advantage of my incapability to feel for life. I did some pretty crazy shit, jumping off short roofs and going down waterfalls. No one was around, and it was fun. I've missed the Dauntless days way too much.

And then I return, still looking at the mirror. Another moment of life wasted in the memories.

I put on a simple camisole and a pair of ripped jeans, mindlessly scrolling on my phone. A text appears on my message bar.

"Morning. Got the time right again didn't I."

Oh. Almost forgot about this fucker.

"Fuck you." I type, naturally.

And this fucker, of course, is the notorious, wretched Peter Hayes.

Of course this whole thing didn't make any sense at first; you guessed it, because me and Peter had always lived with the acquiesced acknowledgment that we resent each other. I know it's ridiculous; six months ago it would have sounded like the most absurd thing in the world, but Peter and I have indeed been seeing each other pretty frequently after Tobias left the city. For no reason at all, that is, and on very random occasions. It didn't take me too long to let the remaining specks of hatred I had for him fade away, because as I said before, my emotions are long ago fatigued. But Peter is some next level shit. You never know what he's up to.

Let's just say he's something that I'm still trying to figure out. Before I was sure of what he was— a fucking piece of shit. But now he sorta falls between the line, and that sure as hell stresses me out.

If I could, I would be very delighted to forget about his existence and just move the fuck on.

Spoilers.

I couldn't.

* * *

Peter looked pretty different from how I remembered him to be when I first saw him after the war. I have a shitty job to go to six days a week, delivering pizza takeaways around the western parts of the city on a worn-out motorcycle. I tried speeding with that thing once, but the thrill was apparently far from enough. It's not the nicest job, to say the least, but it's definitely better than sitting at an office desk all day long doing absolutely nothing but tidying up paperwork. That will surely drive me insane.

The cashier guy was taking in a last-minute order on the phone and telling me to deliver it when I was preparing to end the day and go home. I had no objections to that, despite the reluctance. And so I threw myself on the motorcycle and headed towards the given address, letting the wind slap freely on my face through the helmet as I eventually stopped by a dark narrow valley, in which a vague figure stood leaning loosely against the blackened wall riddled with disheveled graffiti.

Now, let's skip all the dramatic parts and get straight to the point: Peter was the one who ordered the pizza.

"Hey Tris." he simply said upon the sight of me basically dropping my jaw, utterly unperturbed.

I cringed. It sounded so wrong coming out of his lips, and I quickly shoved the box of pizza into his gloved hands. I seriously wasn't needing that.

Don't get me wrong though. I've been having a shit ton of fun talking to Peter lately. We put up a decent fight almost every time, which is a way of greeting each other that I've actually been enjoying. Peter doesn't agree. He's been bitching quite a lot about it. Which only leads to more decent fights, pushing on chests, and kissing each other in the middle of pointless conversations. I can take it. Peter is of not much importance, anyway— until he suddenly isn't anymore.

Still I have some serious issues about hearing him call me Tris. It made me very uncomfortable, sensing the eerie touch of intimacy that isn't necessarily there. And so I made the harshest statement I could manage and blurted it out at him.

"Stiff. Just call me stiff."

"Wow. I'm flattered." he pulled on the hood of his gray sweatshirt and beamed a half-hearted smirk at me. "Never thought you'd appreciate something that I made up."

Everything he said brought a shiver down my spine.

"I thought you used the serum." I snapped instead.

"I did." he shrugged, with perfectly intact memory.

"Or maybe you didn't."

"I used it. It didn't work." he gripped tightly at the edge of the pizza box as we continued to stand in the late night wintry breeze, he against the wall and me against the backseat of the motorcycle. His face felt close, and I took my time to thoughtlessly examine his perfectly defined features after an eternity of separation. The fierce look I remembered seeing in his eyes vanished, leaving a cold trace of exhaustion and pride on either side of his reddened cheeks. He was giving off such a different vibe; such a different color. It almost made him look... _pleasant_.

But of course I knew better than that. Peter looks like everything a woman can dream of, but that's the end of the story. Especially with what he's done in the past it was getting kinda hard to appreciate the beauty in this crooked man. But I had to agree, to a certain extent, that he is pretty captivating in some way.

I swallowed at the twisted thought.

Oh right. The serum.

"Of course it didn't work." I crossed my arms. "You didn't take it."

"Wh-Tris, Jesus, can you stop being so fucking paranoid?" he protested in his signature tone of an innocent-wannabe. "Check the books. Use your common sense. I was from fucking Candor, how about that?"

I raised an eyebrow at the manner. He looked away.

"You saw my past. You've been there. Is there any point in remembering all that?"

"What happened?"

I was not even trying anymore. Peter seemed a lot vulnerable than he was back in the days. Maybe something changed. And maybe, _maybe_ — I was interested in knowing what exactly did.

He paused for a brief second, but quickly decided to not let a piece of anything slip through.

"What happened is that you delivered the last order, and you're gonna get busted if you don't head back asap." he stuffed a couple of wrinkled bills into my uniform pocket. "You _will_ get shitted on, believe me."

I gave a light snort and flung myself up the motorcycle. "Fine."

If he doesn't wanna talk, I'm not gonna do it either. Not like I care.

He watched me start that motorcycle up and waved a lazy goodbye as I hurriedly drove away. I didn't wave back.

The first thing I noticed after seeing Peter was that I no longer hate him for anything. It was a nice departure, knowing that we'd separate with mutual respect. Yeah, Peter did some pretty terrible shit back then, but it's not like I'm gonna keep clinging onto the past. That's not gonna do me any good.

I was at peace, for a whole week. Nothing special happened, I still went to that shitty job regardless.

— and that was before the phone at the cashier started to ring late one night again.

* * *

 **Suddenly feel this strong urge to write a little bit of Petris although probably no one else on the internet is doing the same anymore. An experiment to see how many active shippers are still waving out there. Dropping a comment or two will be very much appreciated. High chances of updates in the future. :) Please show some love and support for the ship, for the sake of this small and fragile community.**


	2. Two

**Two**

* * *

 **Tris**

"Fuck no I'm not doing that address again."

It was the fourth time Peter phoned our shop in the month, and the first time I actually came to the conclusion that he was just fucking with me at that point. At first it didn't really draw my attention; I handed him his order, he handed me the bills, and I drove away without looking back. But suddenly it was dawning on me like a quick strike of lightning, as I stared blankly down at the address that I have grown ridiculously accustomed to: Peter Hayes was obviously up to something more than just pizzas.

"Or maybe you can just quit the job," the cashier guy chimed in snappily upon my remark.

"So you don't have to do any addresses whatsoever."

I was long immune to these types of dark sarcasm by then, mainly because I found them strangely humorous— and genuine, to some extent. And so I gave him the finger, half-heartedly. He returned the gesture with an ambiguous smirk as I hopped briskly onto my motorcycle.

The night further deepened as I sped past the streets under the emptiness of the sky, stained in shades of fluorescent iridescence that bathed the city in a soothing concoction of vibrancy and decay. Chicago is a beautiful place. If only it wasn't filled with this many broken memories.

I took a swift greedy turn and stopped by the same old gloomy alley, now having a touch of fresh familiarity to it. Peter's silhouette flickered between the walls, sometimes disappearing into the shadow but mostly at his full height.

I alighted from the motorcycle and grabbed the delivery bag, pacing up and down impatiently at the entrance of the alley until he finally took notice of my fidgeting figure.

"Oh hey stiff."

I let out a mental sigh of relief. That's the classic Peter courtesy I have expected— something I was far more than happy to stick to.

He took off the respirator to reveal a broad, charming grin, his finger curled tightly around a bottle of spray paint that had tinges of orange spilled over its tip.

 _The memory serum clearly has some creepy side effects on this douche_ , I raised a brow in amusement.

He stared eagerly at the box of pizza held in my hands and made a sloppy attempt to take it.

"Sweet. Thanks."

Just as he was about to grab hold of it, I pulled away.

"What do you want from me, Peter?"

I was surely frustrated, knowing that Peter has _never_ made any moves without etching his intentions deeply in mind. He has an exquisite insight on everything he lays his eyes on, although he seems to be opting for the exact opposite for most of his life. He is far more sophisticated than he appears to be— which is something that I have learned to be fully aware of.

I held the pizza close to my chest, awkwardly as I awaited an explicit answer with tightly pursed lips. He was shook for a brief moment, but was also quick enough to drown it out with the aid of a thick, skillful façade.

"… pizzas, I think?"

I glared at him with hostility.

"Look, I know you're always a little bit sensitive on things Tris, but c'mon." he backed away a little with a weary smile, practically snatching the pizza box out of my hands and resumed examining the unfinished graffiti on the wall with furrowed brows.

 _Damn it_ , I whispered. It was that kind of moment when you know he is covering something up but you have no way of telling how. He is just invincible when it comes to this field of language art— and I knew better than putting myself to shame by challenging the summit of his eloquence.

My eyes eventually landed on the graffiti Peter was mulling on, after an eternity of taciturnity. It was a green text that read 'streak', with an exceptional artistic sense to it despite the incomplete shading and detailing. To make things weirder, this was actually done by the very hands of _Peter Hayes_. Which was, by all means, unconvincing.

But I quickly accepted the truth, having no other choices but to break the silence for good.

"Got all artsy now?"

He jerked his head to me for a second, then focused back on the graffiti with solemn eyes. "Well, yeah. It started off as ruining walls, but then I got serious about it."

The way Peter responded made me very… uncomfortable. It was almost like he knew the concept of basic respect, for the first time in his eighteen-year life. Maybe that's the power of talking nice, as a primarily vicious person. It makes you completely speechless and utterly defenseless against anything he says, and in absolute oblivion of what the actual fuck is going on. But then it's another two years; everyone should be allowed to change, for the better or for the worse. Peter shouldn't be any exceptions.

I looked at the graffiti again, dropping quietly a heartfelt compliment in hopes of sustaining a healthy conversation. "It's pretty amazing."

"Not so much when your life depends on it." He shrugged.

I tiled my head. I was absolutely hating how badly I was intrigued to his story, but I was far too determined to satisfy the appetite of my curiosity to be caring at the moment.

"What happened to you after the war?"

"What happened to _you_?" he turned to me. Way to avoid the fucking question.

"Nothing." I hissed, rather harshly. I wasn't planning to bring anything up just yet.

"Well, definitely _something_." He pushed.

"You don't know that." I told him. I could see my expression gradually hardening in his dark, clouded eyes.

"I do. Four left the city, didn't he?"

"Peter—"

"He moved to Milwaukee. Got a position at the HQ of the city's light supplier. I knew, because I worked there. It was one hell of a job."

 _Four._

The name tasted so foreign on my lips, just like the stinging retrospect that brought a twinge to my heart as I imagined snuggling wildly at his side, listening to his stories. Some golden days to be mourning for, I suppose. But I was about to lock that shit up— before good ol' Peter decided to stir it up again and leave a horrible mess at the wake of my reminiscences. I was honestly appreciating that.

"Is that why you keep ordering pizzas from us? Reminding me of stuff that I'm trying to forget?" I said in a barely audible whisper. I was devastated to a point where I no longer feel the urging need to talk with any sorts of emotions.

"What I'm trying to say is that we all lost our worth in the war. I tried to move on from that, couldn't. I'm literally stuck in the past. And you are kinda the only person from there who's gonna get me on this one so far." a tiny speck of bitter laughter hurried past his lips.

"Does that answer your question, Tris?"

A powerful gust of chilly wind hustled past the streets. Peter's black scarf wavered in sync as he tried to bury his cheeks into the warmth of his duffle coat, his brown hair perfectly disheveled in a way so awfully breathtaking. It is strange how Peter is such a beautiful man, when he isn't trying his ass off to get under people's skin. He's actually something I could manage to admire up close.

I glanced at him, skeptically.

"What drugs are you on?"

I could see an evilly angelic smile creeping up to the corners of his lips behind the thick fabric of his scarf.

"I don't know. But I think the med's called 'humanity'. Wish me luck on that one."

As I drove away from the pavement and hit the roadway, Peter's words haunted my mind like a lustful ghost to its host. He was eating away my soul, nibbling at the wound that had just begun to heal. Peter is a mystery in the mist, and is actually, to my surprise, a lot more than that. He hides in the shadow of obscurity, falls in between the boundaries and feeds on the safety of the vague, gray ground. You can't just summarize him into a simple definition. You can't just flip to your page of the story and be like: _Peter is a fucking piece of shit_.

It wasn't difficult before, but then it started tearing my sanity apart.

 _I have to know what happened. I have to know what changed._

The phone at the cashier continued to ring, just like many other nights. The cashier guy had long drifted off to sleep, with his head leaning slightly to the side and his legs stretched widely open. I checked the time. 9:15 PM.

 _Damn. This fucker really calls like an alarm clock._

I picked up the phone.

* * *

 **Just to build the whole thing up a little bit so Peter and Tris can have a deeper conversation about what they have become in life. Hope it wasn't too boring :). Comments would always be deeply appreciated. Here's a salute to the Petris shippers who never cease to maximize their influences on the fandom.**


	3. Three

**Three  
**

* * *

 **Tris**

It's Saturday night, and I'm lying on Peter's bed, _again_.

The sun is peeking through a translucent layer of clouds, dyeing the sky in a faint tinge of morning yellow. Come to think of it— summer is about to come round.

Reluctantly, I let my consciousness slip slowly back into my soul. Peter lies motionless next to me, eyes wandering about the pale ceiling.

This thing between me and Peter has been going on for months now— whatever this is. I don't know what to call it yet, but it's mostly a bizarre concoction between being friends and enemies. At least when we are in bed. It always starts with two cups of strongly flavored shots, followed by some drunk bullshit that ultimately have us taking matters into the bedroom. It got out of hand pretty quickly, but neither of us care, nor do we put much meaning into what we are doing. It's just how it is, in a way that makes our relationship strangely dynamic and remarkably ambiguous at the same time.

To be honest, this is getting a little depressing. The mere thought of having spent an entirety of the last three months riding on a motorcycle, getting drunk and screwing around with Peter is enough to make me wonder what the actual fuck my life has become. It's literally just pizzas, alcohol and sex at this point— which is, to say the least, pretty unhealthy.

"Shut up, princess. At least you get to complain." Peter growls on the other side of the bed, all the while scrolling through his phone with drowsy eyes. He flips himself over so he can flash me the crybaby gesture, to which I respond by kneeing him in the crouch.

"Says the asshole who had to make things go his way by ordering pizzas from a stiff because he is just that desperate."

"Maybe I am." He beams a wide, devilish smirk that immediately shuts down my entire sarcasm system.

"But guess what? I got laid and I am _still_ getting laid."

"Fuck you." I grab the pillow and conveniently smash it onto his face.

"Look who's the desperate one now."

It's true though. After Peter declared his intention to get in touch through pizzas, I sort of just expected him to do that. And like he said, I was more drawn to his story then I would ever like to admit. At first I was just curious, but then it became like a weekly routine for me. I just had to come back for more.

"You're addicted, you know." Peter once said to me, as he grabbed a slice of pepperoni with paint-stained hands.

"I told you. There is no story. I didn't like it in Milwaukee, so I moved back for some vandalism. It's that simple."

"I wasn't asking about you." I retorted. He offered me a slice, and I simply denied the offer.

"Oh. So it was Four then." He tilted his head and picked up a bottle of spray paint, mindlessly tossing it up and down.

"You can start thinking about moving on, seriously. Dude's got a girl engaged."

"I moved on." I attempted to argue, but it turned out frail on my lips.

"Did you though?" Peter ruffled a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, as he started spraying here and there on the alley wall.

"There's a difference between turning away and moving on, Tris. I was hoping you could tell."

I pursed my lips bitterly at the remark. He beamed a triumphant smirk at me.

Maybe he was being merciless, or maybe I had been showing too much mercy to myself. Either way, it got me thinking.

And then there's Four's wedding, marching towards me in heavy, stifling footsteps. After weeks spent in Peter's bed, I have come to realize that sooner or later, I'll have to walk out of it. _Move on_ , as the shithead would say.

I crawl up from his bed in an almost desperate attempt while grabbing my phone from the bed stand. My back still hurts from last night. Peter sure is a caged beast set free whenever he feels like being one.

"Are you going?" Peter snuggles closer to me, kicking away the sheets as I unwittingly tap open the email invitation Four sent me months ago, my eyes roaming hollowly across the long string of pretentious words which become unfathomable given my current state of mind.

"What?" I murmur in a dreamlike haze.

"You know, his wedding." Peter says in between a casual yawn.

"Are _you_ going?" I echo the question, a little bit too hastily. _Damn_ , I mumble to myself. This is me being as evasive as ever.

"Honestly, I don't really see the point in it. Four and I didn't exactly part on good terms, so."

It wasn't the first time he's said this. Nor can I say for certain that he intended to let it slip. Either way, it caught my attention.

"What?" Peter's bare torso sways in discomfort as I gawk at him in amusement. He is obviously not appreciating the way it's going— but nothing is stopping me from prying into his story now. Not when he's decided to let a snippet of it past his lips.

"You… wanna talk about it?" I push, taking my chances.

His eyes find mine in a feeble gaze.

"At last?"

"Not really, no." He looks terrified in a way, and it doesn't seem like he is trying to hide it.

"It's been three months, Peter." I plead, sincerely.

"No, Tris, come on. The every time we do this little back and forth dance we fuck each other up."

"It's what got us started."

Peter throws me a glance of disbelief, after the miserable attempt of trying to put on an indifferent façade.

"We can't just solve our problems in bed whenever things get wrong. Not at where we are now."

Peter is fidgeting, in an unsettled manner. I guess it's entirely up to me to talk openly about us, about whatever's going on with him. Because eventually, I have to know. It's either that or we'll have to continue with this never-ending wrestle, which, from the looks of it, is pretty distressing.

I peer silently at Peter, awaiting an answer.

"You're impossible." He simply says, with a notable amount of frustration and irritation as he leans against the headboard, bereft of words.

We sit in complete serenity for the next few minutes, too weary to think of anything else to say. Maybe we need it, every once in a while. Peter's place has been one riddled with discords ever since I came along. It's probably best if we are to slow down a bit— for the time being, that is.

* * *

This _little back and forth dance_ , as Peter would like to call it, began as soon as I first laid one feet into the territory of Peter's studio-slash-apartment. It was one of those nights with Peter outside the alley, except I felt like my whole being was gradually crumbling apart. It made less sense the more I thought about it. I was messed up, and I have no one else to turn to.

Peter was scooping me up in his arms, practically forcing my ass onto the backseat of my motorcycle after I thoughtlessly announced the evening plan to get wasted at a lousy tavern. I was done with his delivery, feeling as shitty as ever. A bitter, scorching drink would really help clear my head, or so I thought.

"I still need to get back. The cashier guy will shit all over me for keeping the motorcycle overnight." I scowled into Peter's back as he boarded the motorcycle, breathing into his gloved hands in a mindless attempt to seek even just the faintest sense of warmth.

"Just call in sick tomorrow. You're clearly not functioning."

"Let me go."

"Too bad. Now let's get you home." he shot me a look of anticipation, apparently expecting an address from me.

"Fuck off."

"Fine. Then we'll head over to my place." he cocked his head to the side, leaving not a single inch of land for discussion.

I was still trying to comprehend what his genuine intentions were. I was a mess, but I wasn't upset. I was fully aware of my own consciousness. And I had been very determined to get a drink, one that could truly soothe my perturbed soul like no person could.

"Stop it. You are not my mom."

"I'm not, but still I can tell. That's how bad a vibe you're giving."

My heart clicked in dull pain at my very own statement. It reminded of the many things I lost to the war. And even after.

I could feel the rise and fall of Peter's chest behind his broad shoulders, and the comforting vibration of his back as he spoke.

"You're going to tell me about it."

"Drop me off."

True, Peter and I might had been hanging out on and off for the past few weeks, but it didn't give him the right to just suddenly pretend like he cared and start getting all bossy with me. I still stood my ground, and I had kept my distance. He had to know that he was walking the line on this one.

Growing taciturn, Peter chose to speed along the narrow roadway, soaking himself in a flurry of furious bliss as our surroundings faded into the hoary vibrancy of the night. He was being a difficult prick, but I couldn't say I wasn't enjoying the thrill. Squeezing my eyes shut, I buried my sanity into the faint, pleasant scent lingering on his charcoal sweater. It smelled of laundry, home, and a little bit like a cozy night spent curling up on a couch under a fuzzy blanket, taking a swill of whiskey or two.

Peter took a sharp turn, numbing my senses as the wintry wind slapped fiercely against my cheeks.

It was appeasing.

I started looking around, this time with a tranquil heart. We were at the outskirts, the forsaken part of the city. The motorcycle came to an abrupt haul.

We strolled into a two-story parking lot, worn out with a distinctive odor of exhaust. Through the fire doors was a dimly-lit corridor, with lifeless, smudge-stained walls and creaky wooden doors standing weakly against one another, breathing time away.

Peter fished out his keys and with a gentle nudge, the door gave into the force.

The apartment reeked of spray paint; walls were splattered with unruly stains of neon yellow and red. A disorganized stack of artwork scattered across the miserable excuse of a table, near the impressive collection of spray paints which led all the way to the twin bed at the far corner of the room. The only place that seemed neat enough for a nice cup of drink.

"I wanna go home." I groaned, although it didn't sound very compelling.

"Really? I thought you were looking for some alcohol to blame upon."

"I want nothing to do with you, douchebag."

"And I want nothing to do with your issues. Yet." Peter was rummaging through the cupboards, until two small, exquisite bottles of Jack Daniel's turned up in his hands.

My mouth watered.

"Bottoms up. Then we'll talk."

I threw Peter a skeptical glimpse. He simply shrugged.

 _I need that shit_ , my head told me.

Without another word, I took a generous swig from the bottle, allowing the brewing storm in my mind to calm as the burning liquid slid smoothly down my throat. I started thinking.

After Four left for the better, I knew I have been a fucked-up wreck. I didn't show it, although I knew I was on my own the second he stepped out of my life. I turned a blind eye to my own problems by immersing myself in the Dauntless reminiscence, constantly lost in a turbulent ocean of drunken and disheveled thoughts, insisting that I was okay because I had to be. I knew I had to face life in solitude, and I guess it didn't really hit me hard enough at first. I could see it now, why everyone eventually moved out of Chicago. I could see that I was the only one still embracing the shattered memories, because they were all I had to keep me going.

Peter was not the best of company, but he was a reminder of the past. It wasn't a pleasant one, but like he said, I was all he could relate to right now. And he, to me.

We were trapped in time, and we only had each other.

So when I finally broke the deadly silence with the aid of the whiskey in my system, I was not by the slightest bit startled by what my hoarse voice was suggesting.

"Four texted." I said, out of the blue.

And in that moment, I resorted to Peter Hayes, a stranger in my past. And maybe, it wasn't such a bad thing after all.

* * *

 **Sorry it took forever. At one point I had to wait for an idea to sparkle in my mind, and it only chose to show up recently. I am incredibly sorry for the wait, and I hope this isn't too bad of a chapter. Updates would probably not be frequent, but I will try my best. It's too soon to give up just yet, given how amazing you all are. Comments are at all times welcomed.**


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